Using his life as material for his fiction –
Delighted to finally see these inescapable things… indeed
 
Collecting these scatter-crashings of a shadow of a successful yesteryear
Half way between, the glad-rags and the softness of the sycamore tree. Sickly sensational human-being, please.
 
How oft than not shall we re-prioritise and respond to our better lesser strenuous senses again?
Pen / Paper ? Playful moustache-‘tache twisted deliciously midst til nestled amorously nearby…
 
The break of his glass jawline – therein will lie…
 
The wine, that delectable, intermittently consistently intermingled dine of the alarming clock takes sudden cumbersome hold to stock it all in rapturous place
 
This. Is. The. Inevitable. In-habitual. Taste.
 
For the torturous upheaval steal. Of. A. Crime-Time. Bootlegging by all manners of speaking to tweak the deafening difference
 
His eyes have been lending themselves to that magnum opus of his – midst New York City’s modern day library of hidden, seething, exasperated people.
He died in the saddle, with his boots put upon – very much looking forward, to a posthumous future.
The sinking ship captain of his own bare-knuckled, -naked fate set sail.